a poem about Lexa
A haunted, hooded, war-torn set of green,
And fingers, slender, callused, restless, strong,
Have carried her through horrors best unseen,
Through burdens to which only her belong.
You’d think her back would buckle from the weight
Of those she carries, from all that she’s sworn.
You’d think that those she’s lost, she’d venge with hate,
But visions of peace leave no time to mourn.
She gives herself to those whom she’d fain fail,
And sacrificial wounds have left her scarred.
Her heart wears “Love is weakness” like a veil,
For fear she deserves no higher regard.
Her fate may be to die, but this is true:
Her walls collapse when green collides with blue.